Guilt
by anna2
Summary: The baggage that our lives leave us to carry. A companion to Sucker Punch, from the other point of view. Based upon spoilers for Season Five.


He was used to the guilt

Title: Guilt

Rating: Definitely T. The F-bomb is dropped here folks. Along with the serious emotional upheaval

Author: Anna2

Author Notes: This meant to accompany Sucker Punch. I leave it to my readers to determine if it fits with my other work, as I feel that such interpretation is indeterminate at this time. It fits in with the end of Season Four and while it follows the format of my previous pieces, the tone is quite different. You have been warned now. And as usual, if you can't figure out the names, you don't watch enough to be reading fic.

WARNING! THIS FIC IS BASED UPON SPOILERS FOR SEASON FIVE! YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED! DO NOT FLAME ME BECAUSE YOU DIDN'T READ THIS PART.

He was used to the guilt.

Being used to feeling guilty actually made him feel even guiltier, if that was possible.

There were different kinds of guilt. The guilt of facing a victim when the perp hadn't been caught was one kind. That guilt stayed at work and didn't carry personal blame. After all, you can't match prints that aren't in the system.

There was the guilt of not going to the cemetery on Louie's birthday and anniversary, despite his mother asking every year. That guilt was reflexive and ingrained. He'd avoided cemeteries his entire life and wasn't likely to crack now.

There was the guilt of not going to Church but that had been there since he hit puberty and discovered that girls were a lot more interesting than the Church had been letting on. Secretly he suspected it wasn't really guilt anyway, that it was more of an ingrained reflex than anything else. Especially since that guilt always sounded like Uncle Sal, who was also known as Father Martino during Confession.

But this kind of guilt was different. He could have prevented this.

He still couldn't figure out what in the hell had made him that doing that was a good idea. For a long moment he'd wanted to vomit when he woke up the next morning. And yet, he'd swallowed that impulse and continued down his gut-twisting path to this fresh level of hell for weeks before coming to his senses.

If he was really honest with himself (and right now, what was the point of lying?) he had to admit that he hadn't even had the guts to break it off himself. He'd let circumstances do that for him.

Intellectually, he could tell himself that it was shared grief and self loathing that had led him down this path and he wasn't the only one responsible for this. But that excuse only went so far and didn't leave him feeling any better. It was a crock anyway. How many times had he thrown it in a criminal's face that they were responsible for their own actions? What was left of his sense of honor demanded that he now hold himself to those same standards, no matter how lousy it felt.

And now he'd done what he'd sworn he'd never do: He hurt her as badly as she'd ever been hurt, after assuring her that she could let him in. That she could trust him. That it was okay to let down her walls and take a chance and that he promised he would never make her regret that choice.

And then she'd found that bra.

He'd thought for sure she was going to smack him. Right after that terrible pain had slammed into her eyes, her fist had curled up and he'd actually braced himself against the blow. But her fist had gone through the wall instead and she'd begun screaming.

She should have smacked him. He deserved it, would have welcomed it actually. After a fuck up this bad she should have pounded him into the ground and then let Stella loose on what was left. Maybe then he'd stop feeling like utter slime.

She hadn't told anybody at work, of that he was sure.

She'd shown up for work the next day and had behaved utterly correctly. Admittedly, they'd worked separate scenes and the interaction had consisted of passing in the hallway once but she hadn't so much as glanced in his direction. Emails he'd sent Before had been answered and she'd followed up on shared evidence as protocol demanded, wrapping up a lot of ends actually.

She disappeared the next day.

Mac had briefly commented that she was taking some overdue vacation time and would be back in a few weeks, and then continued handing out the assignments as though nothing had happened. He'd been waiting for the other shoe to drop, for someone to indicate that they knew what he had done. A look of loathing, a muttered comment… anything really. As the day wore on he began to realize she was stronger than he had thought and had not said anything to anyone. She'd taken it to heart when she'd been reprimanded earlier for bringing her personal life into the workplace and clearly was determined not to do it again. Part of him wished she had said something. Maybe seeing the revulsion on other people's faces would make him feel less like a hypocrite. After all, why should they know what he was?

When she came back three weeks later, it was as though They had never been. She treated him with the civility and courtesy of a causally known coworker. She worked the scenes they shared with a brittle professionalism and said not one word that didn't apply to job at hand. An outsider looking in would have seen nothing more than coworkers doing a job.

He knew better. He could see that smiles and (rare) laughter never reached her eyes. In the time he now thought of as Before, she would take delight in putting together the puzzle pieces of evidence. Now, After, that subtle joy was gone. The job was just a job. That was another piece of guilt to the growing pile, another sin owed penance.

Despite all his earlier experience with guilt, he knew this was the kind that was going to haunt him for the rest of his life and not the way the Church did. Because there was no way to make this right, no way to take it back and no way to even try justifying what he'd done. There was no excuse, no path to forgiveness.

Oh sure, eventually his gut would stop twisting every time he looked in her direction (he hoped). Eventually he'd date again (if he ever trusted himself again). Maybe she would too (although he didn't think he could stand that). One day, her smiles might reach her eyes again. Maybe even someday he'd get the courage to apologize (that one needed to be top of the list actually). Maybe, if he was the luckiest bastard on the planet (and even that might not be enough), he'd be able to look her in eyes again.

But the guilt? That wasn't going anywhere.


End file.
